


Sins Of The Father

by movieholic



Series: Sins Of The Father [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Father/Son, Gen, Movie Spoilers, Slight Non-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movieholic/pseuds/movieholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And what, pray tell, is this alarming news?"<br/>"You're a father, Erik."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Photograph

Pietro “Peter” Maximoff knew he should keep still whenever he was waiting in a public place with his family, but sometimes Peter “Quicksilver” Maximoff also didn't like to listen to his own thoughts. Much less his adoptive mother's. Said woman was currently leveling her frustrated brown eyes on him, and trying to convey her annoyance through a vague hand motion.

Peter adjusted the cheap, black headphones around his neck, and shifted from foot to foot as they finally reached the checkout counter they had been waiting ages in. At least it felt like ages to the young speedster. He was used to moving, and moving with a quickness and agility that belied his “slow and dimwitted” look he usually wore upon his countenance. He hated lines, and he hated waiting. He wanted to  _go_ , _go_ , _go_ from the very moment he was born. At least he assumed he was like this from the beginning. He obviously couldn't recall his birth. Or his biological parents for that matter. He just figured that was how he always was. Ready to go.

“Peter.” The woman he had come to know as his mother admonished him with a shake of her head. She ran a hand through her dark blond hair, and sighed laboriously. When she caught the eye of the cashier, she cast him her best put-upon smile, and shook her head. “Teenagers."

At their shared laughter, Peter rolled his eyes, but physically rooted himself to the spot as if suddenly frozen into a statue. His sister, whom he was also not blood related to, giggled at his obvious attempt to be a smartass. He grinned, and ruffled her hair, before resuming his side-to-side foot shifting. The constant need to move was like a tickling tendril of unconscious thought in the back of his overactive mind, and in the deepest marrow of his bones.

A kernel of an idea popped and blossomed in the impulsive teen's mind as he watched his mother finally pay for her purchases. She clutched the plastic bags in her thin hands, as if afraid a certain someone was going to swipe them from under her nose, and hurriedly shuffled towards the parking lot with her weight in items. His sister hummed a melodic tune as she skipped ahead of the two, and Peter couldn't hide his grin as he dutifully trotted behind.

When they reached the car, his mother unlocked the trunk and was in the process of loading it up when she cast a weary look towards her son. “What's going on in that mind of yours now, Peter?”

He purposely schooled his face into one of surprise at her question, and responded with nothing more than a bemused “Hmm?” The smirk playing at his lips did nothing to dissuade her initial train of thought: he was up to something. Again.

She narrowed her eyes at him, demanded they get in the car, and managed to start the engine before she realized that Peter hadn't followed her orders.  _Shocker_ , she mentally sighed. The silver-haired teen bent at the waist, and playfully tapped a beat on her window until she finally rolled it down. His grin didn't abate as he said, “Race ya home.” He pulled the headphones down over his ears, pulled the goggles he kept in his back pocket out and over his eyes, before he pressed play on his Walkman.

“P-” she didn't get the rest of his name out before he took off in a blur of movement. Her blond hair whipped up, and tickled her face. She sat, annoyed, and ignored the stifled giggles in the backseat. She simply rolled the window up, and eased the car from their parking spot. This was, after all, not the first time Peter had suggested they raced each other home.

Peter arrived on the blackened welcome mat at the front of his home with the smell of burning rubber grazing his nose. He removed his goggles, and replaced the headphones around his neck, before mockingly wiping the soles of his melting sneakers on the mat. He then burst into movement again, flying inside the home and into the kitchen. He was halfway through nursing a generic brand of soda, flicking through the TV channels, and resting his sock-clad feet within the next few seconds when the sound of grandfather clock in the hallway chimed in the new hour.

He disinterestedly noted the time, before he realized what the time meant. It meant the punctual mailman would currently be sidling towards his front lawn, and looking around before cautiously placing the mail inside the infamous Maximoff family's mailbox.

Peter smiled fully. He loved when the mailman came.

He put on and laced his sneakers, finished his soda, turned off the TV and yanked the mail from the terrified postman's hand before the poor man could even fully remove it from his carrying bag. The teen was already flicking through the plethora of bills, letters and spam (tossing anything uninteresting to the side) and settling on a magazine with a skimpily-dressed woman on the cover before the mailman could even realize that he had been duped again.

The magazine itself was addressed to the old man in the next house down, but Peter figured he could blow through the magazine ten times, and have it in the rightful owner's hands before the postman could even start to open said neighbor's mailbox.

“Peter Maximoff!” His mother's sharp tone of voice cut through the near silence of the house as she slammed open the front door in a poor attempt to juggle her bags and enter the house at the same time. “Get up-” She blinked and looked down at the top of Peter's blue-tinted silver hair, as he suddenly appeared before her in the space of an exacerbated breath. “Here,” she finished with a narrowing of her eyes, and a huff of annoyance.

“Hey, ma. Can I put this stuff away for you?” He scratched at his chin with the nail of his thumb. It took his mother a brief second, and the fading sound of a cabinet drawer being closed to realize he had already put everything away before claiming, “I don't mind helpin'.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes. “You know that you're not supposed to that in public.”

He frowned, and looked around the house. “This isn't public.”

“You  _know_ what I mean, Peter.”

He grinned, and stood on his tiptoes to place a kiss on the frustrated wrinkle on her forehead. “If I do my chores now, will that make it up to you?”

She absolutely knew that even if she bothered to form her lips into the shape of the word “Yes” that he would be done straightening up everything he was supposed to. When she opened her eyes, and released her nose from her grip, he was still grinning up at her. This time with a roll of paper towels being rolled and unrolled in his hands.

He disappeared, and reappeared without the paper towels but with what looked like a piece of old paper in his hands. He carefully unfolded it, and she was surprised at how steady his hands were. The paper turned out to be a torn, crease-worn, yellowed photograph of a young woman holding a fair-haired, cherubic-faced baby in her arms.

He held it up to her face. “I found this while I was cleaning. Who are they?”

She plucked it from his fingers, and carefully turned it over. She was afraid it would crumble into ash if she handled it too roughly. In an elegant, possibly female scrawl, the names Magnus, Magda, and Anya were listed on the far right of the photograph. Underneath was the word Vinnytsia. She frowned at the unfamiliarity of it. Maybe it was the location? She turned the photo back over and looked at the woman. She was smiling, and leaning into the side of a man. However, the jagged tear down the picture removed all of the man but his arm that was slung around the woman's shoulders.

She handed the picture back. “It was one of the few things the foster home sent over with you,” she said when he looked back up expectantly. “It might be your biological parents.” She shrugged, and turned away to start the process of taking everything Peter had just put away out, and putting them back in their rightful place.

“Cool,” he murmured as he looked down at the photo. He could barely make out a tattoo on the man's forearm, and raced out of the kitchen without a further word. He scrounged the basement for a magnifying glass, and was hunched over the coffee table with the object pressed as close to his eye as it could physically get as he peered down at the exposed arm in the next second.

He still had trouble making out what it read, but the teen was sure it was a string of numbers. 714787? No, the number that looked like a 7 had a faint strike though it. Were the other “7s” possibly threes? Maybe even twos? 214782?

Peter tossed the magnifying glass off to the side, uncaring of the sharp metallic _crack_ as the handle of the object struck the coffee table on its way down. He held the aged picture up to his dark brown eyes. Did the tattoo truly matter when the young, auburn-haired woman staring straight at him was possibly his biological mother?And what of the toothless, grinning baby with fair hair that was lovingly cradled in the woman's arms? Was that his sister? Was the inked forearm his real father?

Peter sighed, and rubbed at his eyes with the knuckle of his right index finger. He carefully placed the photograph atop the cluttered mess set on the table before him, and kicked his still sneaker-clad feet upon the couch and leaned back with a heavy sigh. He would need to sleep on the myriad of thoughts bombarding him, and hope that the dawn of a new day would bring with it a clarity to his never ending questions.

 


	2. The Nuisance

The following morning held more questions for the teenaged Peter than the last night had. His days normally started with a meager breakfast of sweet, and chocolaty stolen goods, and was followed shortly by endless zipping back and forth between video games and mind-numbing magazine flipping. However, the presence of three mutants knocking on his front door, and asking for his help in their quest to break into the Pentagon and free a dangerous and convicted man...Well, that wasn't part of the norm for the teen. And he usually didn't even _do_ the norm.

They had piled into the men's rental car, and made the drive back to the long-haired hippie's mansion of a home. The silence would have been awkward, if there had been any, but Peter kept the men's ire up and their attention peaked by asking a litany of questions that ranged from the asinine to the surreal. His mouth apparently ran as fast as his legs did, it had seemed.

By the time they had reached the Westchester mansion, the burly, feral looking Logan had managed to break the passenger door handle, and puncture the glove box with his bone-sharp claws. The young man introduced to him as Hank, in a demure tone of voice but surprisingly strong handshake, was fading in and out of a funny blue color that tinged his entire skin. Charles himself was smiling an almost hysterical and odd sort of smile, and trying the best he could to keep up with the young boy's endless amount of questions. Despite all of this, the group made it to the mansion relatively unharmed.

“Wow!” Peter exclaimed when he followed the men enter the foyer. “Look at this place!” He zipped up the stairs, and breezed past the exasperated trio several times before Logan reached out and plucked the teen by the back of his shirt. He swayed to and fro in the air, almost comically, and plastered a wide grin on his face as he glanced up into Logan's unamused face. His current position didn't appear to deter the teen from spewing a thousand more questions. “So, like, do you own this entire place? It's groovy, man. How many rooms does it have? Is it like a hotel? Is it co-ed?” He asked the last question with a suggestive waggle of his gray brows.

Hank had, by now, had covered his entire face with both of his hands and taken to turning that interesting shade of blue again. Charles' left eye looked as if it was twitching, and his ridiculously red lips pursed and quivered as if he was struggling to form words, but he said nothing as Logan growled between clenched teeth, “We don't have time for this, kid.” He narrowed his eyes, as if considering his next move, before he none-too-gently set the boy back on his feet. He kept a strong hold onto the thin fabric of Peter's shirt for reassurance. “Stay put,” he muttered.

Peter beamed, and gave the taller man a mock salute.

“Peter,” Charles began carefully. “If you would follow Hank to lab?” It was meant to be a demand, but Charles was speaking to Peter as if he were a toddler that had kept Charles up for the past fortnight. He looked as if he had about as much sleep too. He ran a hand through his long, and greasy hair with a grimace. “Yes, uh, Logan. If you would please unhand the boy.”

Logan rolled his hazel eyes, but relinquished his iron grip.

Peter glanced between the bespectacled mutant, and the shaggy-haired one. “What for?” The demand was less of a confrontation, and one of mere curiosity. He was chock full of endless curiosity, it seemed. “Are we going to do tests? Like, doctory tests?” He zipped to Hank's side, and tapped the surprised doctor's knee. “Are we going to do that reflex one, with the hammer?” He grinned. “I've always liked that one.” He disappeared, and reappeared on Hank's other side. He tapped that knee as well. With a playful gasp, he exclaimed, “Doc, you've got no reflexes!”

Logan emitted a deep, decidedly animalistic growl that came from his toes up, and even made to take a step forward and seemingly pummel the young twerp, but Charles had sensed the impending demise of their only recruited help, and placed a hand palm-down on the man's abdomen. “Settle, petal.” Logan glanced at Charles' hand, his eyes dark and full of warning, and Charles pulled his hand away with a hasty clearing of his throat.

“Right, yes.” He clasped his hands together. “To answer your many, many... _many_ questions young Maximoff...Hank just needs to draw a little blood, and take a few samples. Nothing too invasive, mind,” Charles reassured with a vague hand motion, and hesitant smile. “We do this with all the students that come through here.” 

Peter couldn't help but school his expression into an exaggerated look of surprise, and turn a full circle in place. His dark eyes took in the dimly lit room, and noted the thick layer of dust that coated nearly everything that wasn't in the immediate vicinity. It was dark, desolate, and abandoned aside from the three men before him. He quirked a gray brow in amusement. “Right...” He drawled.

At Charles' furrowed brow, and puzzled expression, Peter shrugged and nudged Hank's lanky arm with his elbow. “Well, show me the way, el doctor.”

Charles and Logan watched with twin looks of amusement and annoyance, before Charles glanced up at the older man's face with a meaningful expression. The man caught the pointed look, and couldn't stop the pull of his lips into a semi-smile. He raised his large hands in defense. “In all fairness, I've met too many people over too many years to remember exactly how annoying some of them were.”

The younger man chuckled, and shook his head. “Let us just hope that his legs run as fast as mouth does.”

Logan's half smile grew. “Trust me. You've seen for yourself that they do.”

“Yes,” Charles admitted with a slight tilt of his head. “But under these kind of circumstances? I mean, how often has a teenaged boy needed to break into the most secure building in all of America to help a metal-bending criminal mutant escape from an underground prison? Really?”

Logan, despite his usually gruff demeanor, looked slightly taken-aback despite himself. “Well, when you put if that way, Prof.” He scratched at the bristly hair on his jaw.

Charles sighed laboriously, and resisted the strong urge to place his face in the palms of his hands. Instead, he took a deep and steadying breath, and squared his narrow shoulders. “Yes. Well, I suppose we should come up with some semblance of a plan, then?”

They shared another look, before Logan nodded curtly and raised a hand. “Lead the way.”

Charles exhaled sharply. “Right. Come then.”

 


	3. The Altercation

The “prison breakout” worked, more or less, without a hitch. Peter, in his excitement and general disregard for how other's felt about his incessant chatter, couldn't refrain from battering the newly freed Erik with questions about his lockup and the president's death. He either ignored the heated glare from the older man, or just didn't care, as he jounced his legs up and down and drummed his fingers against his thighs to a beat only he could follow.

For the most part, everyone was starting to get used to the nonstop chatter, and tuned the teen out as they discussed the next step in their plan. Erik, having been incarcerated for the past ten years, looked frazzled as Peter continued on, but he eventually steadied his breathing and focused on the glorious feel of surrounding metal after so long without it.

Once they reached the tarmac, Erik hastily bolted from the car, and clambered up the stairs of the plane in order to rid himself of the nuisance that he was forced to sit beside for what seemed like a lifetime. He was only half surprised to see an outfit already laid out for him on the sofa, and eagerly started to shed his plain jumpsuit.

He had managed to pull on the maroon slacks, and had started slipping on the long-sleeved shirt when his ears pricked up at the sound of a breeze in the cockpit. It was oddly misplaced inside the plane, but when nothing else out of the ordinary happened, Erik simply frowned and turned back to pull his other arm into the shirt.

“Where'd you get that?”

Erik silently praised himself for not visibly starting, and instead raised a brow in an almost perfunctory manner as he flipped the collar of his shirt up, then smoothed it down. He glanced askance at the teen, who had found a comfortable slouching position that allowed his legs enough room to stretch out and cross at the ankles. This position didn't keep the animated youngster from jiggling his legs from side to side in a manner that had Erik biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from making a snide comment.

“The tat, man. Where'd you get the tat?” Peter motioned with his right hand, as his left drummed a beat against his thigh.

Erik's eyes narrowed as his lips simultaneously thinned, but he still said nothing as he nimbly began buttoning his shirt. He half turned away from where Peter was now blatantly ogling his bare forearm, and forgo the last few buttons at his neck so that he could roll his sleeves down. He opted to keep them rolled up to his elbows, but maintained his position so that the boy wouldn't have a clear view of arms.

It apparently didn't deter Peter as he drew his legs up, and stretched his body till his right elbow rested against the cushioned seat, so that he could get a better view of what he was clearly interested in.

Erik gruffly cleared his throat, and couldn't help but growl, “Didn't your mother teach you not to stare?” He turned to fully face Peter, who was in the middle of raking a hand through his silver hair. Erik didn't bother to cover the string of inked numbers.

Peter's dark eyes were immediately drawn back to the tattoo. He didn't bother to look up as he retorted, “Which one? The one who abandoned me or the one I wish would?” Erik managed a furrow of his brows, but nothing more before Peter was obnoxiously pointing at his arm. “I've seen that before.”

Erik could feel the exact moment he tensed up; the ripple of toned muscle underneath his pale skin constricting as his blue eyes narrowed undoubtedly further. “I'm sure you have,” he bit out tersely. In the back of his mind, he congratulated himself for being able to manage just that.

“I don't mean in the movies, and stuff,” Peter continued hurriedly. It didn't seem he was rushing his words in an attempt to quell the shitstorm he would find himself in if he continued this line of conversation, but because it was in his nature to do so. At least he had stopped his damned pointing. “I've seen that specific one before.” His eyes widened. “Specifically.” He pushed himself off his elbow, and resumed his slouched recline. “Like, that number. That's from the camps, right? The Jewish camps? Are you Jewish?” He scratched at his chin. “Does that mean you're  _not_ circumcised or that you  _are_ ?”

Before he could get another word in, a distinct rumbling caught his attention. He looked down at his stomach, confused, but quickly realized the entire  _plane_ was shaking. He glanced back up towards Erik, a plethora of questions on his plump lips, but the other man's furious expression stopped him. He couldn't see Erik's eyes, squeezed tightly shut, but Peter knew that if the blue eyes were open he'd be blasted into an icy Hell. 

“Dude, relax.”

Erik's jaw, clenched so tight that Peter couldn't tell if the overwhelming grinding sound that was surrounding him was from the tall man's teeth grinding together or the plane ripping at it's seams, began to develop a steady tic. His nostrils flared in fury as he struggled to  _calm his mind_ , but it had been ten years of nothingness and then  _this_ , this infuriating  _child_ .

“Erik!” The Englishmen had finally arrived. “Erik, what are you doing?”

“Goddamn idiot is going to wreck the plane before we even get it off the ground,” a deeper voice growled. Ah, Charles' clawed companion.

_Relax!_

The mental cry tore through his mind, and the familiarity of it sucked the anger from his body and had him careening to the side in respite. The plane groaned as it filled out, and the sudden silence of his beloved metal ached more than he thought it would.

Erik, grasping the table that he had fallen against in a white-knuckled grip, slowly opened his eyes. The group before him, in various states of emotion, almost made him slam them close again. Instead he took a deep, steadying breath, and sat himself down without sparing a glance to the teen.

The disappointed look in Charles' insanely blue eyes hurt more than Erik cared to admit.

When he finally risked a look up, Peter was grinning from ear to ear, and leaning forward in his seat. Peter's brown eyes, usually alight with mischievous intent, were now bright with something else. Delight? Glee? No, no it was discovery. He uncovered a delicious fact, and was eager to share it with the world. With Erik.

He didn't disappoint when he, without sparing a look at the invisible lint he brushed off his kneecap, smirked and asked, “So, ever been to Vinnytsia?”

The plane groaned.

The others could only stare in bemusement as Erik visibly stiffened, eyes widened, and his voice barely carried his muddled, “ _What_ ?”

“Vinnytsia. Am I pronouncing that right? Some place in the Ukraine, from what I managed to gather.” He idly picked at his nails, but his eyes never left Erik's stricken expression. “There were camps in Ukraine, right? But I don't think your accent fits. So,” he waggled his brows, “Where'd you get the tat?”

Charles, with the burly Logan at his back, had watched this exchange with a deep confusion and even deeper curiosity. Erik had never mentioned anyplace called Vinnytsia in the past, but it must have been a place of importance to him if his semi-horrifed face was anything to go by. He took a few tentative steps forward, one hand out as if that was going to quell the thick tension in the air.

“Peter, I think that's enough,” he calmly stated; his blue eyes never straying from Erik's face.

The impulsive teen either ignored the comment or couldn't hear it over the resounding groan of the plane. Instead, he seemed excited by his personal discovery, and the impending answers to his multitude of questions. But as soon as the words, “Do you know a Magda?” left his lips, a mighty roar of unadulterated anger and pain preceded a heavy blow to the young man's mouth.

Peter, shocked into silence, clutched his split lip and attempted to staunch the flow of bright red blood that dribbled down his chin. Charles was by his side in a heartbeat, maybe he was already there when he realized that Peter had no intention of shutting his mouth, and Logan was wrestling Erik towards the entrance of the plane. He watched as Logan physically threw the other man out, and cracked an aching grin as a wondrous and confused Hank popped up into the doorway the others disappeared out of it.

“...'kay? Peter?”

He rapidly blinked, and realized the pink floating object he thought Erik had knocked into his subconscious was in fact Charles' finger trying to direct his attention. He pulled his blurred focus from Hank, whose mouth was moving but unheard by the two, and back to the concerned Charles.

“Ouch,” Peter cracked as he finally cottoned on to the fact that Charles was waiting for some sort of response.

Charles let out a sigh of relief, and sat back on his haunches. “That was quite a hit,” he claimed while he reached out a hand and gingerly grasped Peter's chin. He turned the teenager's head side to side, eyes narrowing at the visible swell of angry red flesh, but relinquished his tender grip without a word. He briefly hung his head, shook it, and then ran a hand through his long hair.

“I wish I could say you didn't deserve that,” he started, “But I did tell you to stop.” He sounded like a damn teacher scolding his student. And Peter knew exactly how that sounded like. Charles stood, and placed his hands on his hips. “Hank, would you please grab some ice?” When the young man nodded and brushed passed them in his haste to reach the back of the plane, Charles looked down at Peter and asked, “Now what on  _earth_ was that about?”

 


	4. The Story

Charles pressed his aching back against the cushion of the seat he had taken for himself. He crossed his right leg over his left knee, and absently relished the ability to do so in the back of his mind.

He gently stroked the coarse hair in between his nose and upper lip with the index finger of his right hand. _Philtrum_ , his mind supplied as he continued the soothing and repetitious caress. 

He blankly stared straight ahead, at the side of Erik's head, and grazed his eyes over the brown, almost rust colored hair. He noted that it was  _just_ slightly longer than when he had last seen the man. There were small curls of hair that nipped at Erik's ears, and grazed the base of the other man's neck. He seemed fuller, somehow, thicker (and impossibly more masculine.) It suited him very well. As did the red blotch of skin that spanned his lower jaw; courtesy to both Charles, and then Logan when he bodily removed Erik from the plane.

Charles continued his unseeing stare as he replayed his brief conversation with Peter before he eventually managed to convince the boy to leave. He unconsciously furrowed his brows, and ceased his finger stroke. He pulled his hand away from his face, and splayed his fingers on his thigh. He dug his fingertips into his flesh, enjoying the dull pain that blossomed as he kneaded the muscle, but didn't remove his eyes from where they had officially settled on Erik's right ear.

_“That number,” Peter managed to spit out over his rapidly swelling lip. “I found a picture. A photograph. It's torn in two, and seriously old. Like, yellow and turn into dust if you touch it too hard, old. But that number...The man in the picture has that number.”_

_Charles gingerly pressed the bag of ice against the teen's lip. He grimaced as the teen winced. “Sorry.” At Peter's shrug, he continued. “Peter, you know that there are some people that survived the Holocaust, right? They carry their own permanent souvenirs of that time on their arm. It's common in survivors. Just because the man in the photo has a number tattooed on his arm, doesn't mean it's Erik.”_

_Peter pushed the bag away from his lip with a huff. “I know that, Professor. I'm saying that it's him. It's his number on the arm. I know it is.”_

_Charles nodded. “Okay, Peter. Who else is in this photograph?”_

_“I think it's my mother,” he replied. He turned his large, dark eyes up to Charles. “I think it's my mother. And my sister. And...” He trailed off and looked towards the opening of the plane. There wasn't any more noise from outside, so Logan must've calmed Erik down. Or knocked him out. “I think it's my dad. My family.” He squeezed one eye shut in concentration before another thought occurred to him. “There were names,” he supplied, “On the back. Magnus, Magda, and uh...Anya.”_

_Charles looked taken aback, and profusely apologized when he pressed the bag of ice too hard on Peter's sensitive lip. “Peter, that's a serious conclusion you've come to. How can you be so sure?”_

_“My mom, my adoptive mom,” he amended, “Told me that the picture was one of the few things I had on me when I came to live with her. I mean,” he ran a hand through his silver hair, “I could have nicked it, but I'm pretty sure that it's them. My real family.”_

_The professor couldn't suppress a sigh. He offered Peter a curt nod, and handed him the melting bag. “Alright, Peter. If you'd like, I'll check it out as soon as I'm able. Okay?”_

_Peter nodded vigorously. He looked very much like the child he pretty much was._

_“No promises,” Charles warned, but couldn't help the small smile that the boy brought out of him. Sure, the speedster was annoying, but he had a certain kind of charm about him._

_“I got it,” Peter said with a wink. He winced as his beaming grin pulled at the shallow cut on his lip, but the delighted twinkle in his eyes didn't abate._

“Charles. Charles?  _Charles_ .” There was snap of fingers in front of his face, that startled the young professor out of his deep reverie. The long, squared-fingers and the concerned blue eyes belonged to Erik. He was leaning forward in his seat, brow furrowed as he tried to capture his old friend's attention. “Are you alright, Charles?”

He cleared his throat, and glanced away. “Quite, Erik.”

“You seemed deep in thought, old friend. Care to share?”

Charles very much wanted to snap at him, to tell him to mind his own, but he had told Peter he would try to find out the truth to his accusations. Once they reached Paris, they really wouldn't have time for idle chitchat, so he hunched forward and tried to meet those piercing eyes. “Actually, I was wondering the same of you,  _old friend_ .” The familiar moniker didn't sound quite as friendly when slipping through Charles' lips as it did when it came from Erik.

“Pardon?” Erik placed his arm across the back of the sofa, and furrowed his brows even further.

“What was young Peter speaking of?”

Ah, there it was. The sudden narrowing of eyes, the tensing of muscles, and the tight clenching of a strong jaw. There  _was_ something to Maximoff's story then. 

“Nothing of importance,” Erik finally managed to grind out between impossibly clenched teeth.

“I'm afraid it is,” Charles replied. “It seems our fellow mutant has, in his possession, a photograph that features a young woman, child, and a man with a  _very_ familiar tattoo.”

The sharp warping of metal was Charles' warning that he was probably handling this conversation a little too brusquely. He cleared his throat, and sat back in his seat. He took a deep breath, and tried his best to level his once closest friend with an open and nonjudgmental expression. He softened his voice, and met Erik's eyes. He was shocked to see that they were bright, wet with unshed tears, and found himself faltering for a brief moment. “Who were they, Erik?”

“They,” Erik's voice sounded strangled, and raw. He look away angrily, and clenched his hands into fists. The plane trembled, as if going through turbulence, but settled after a second. “They were...” He exhaled hard, before turning his head to return Charles' steady gaze. “They were my family. My wife. My daughter.”

“What happened?” It came out as curious whisper.

Erik looked away, and removed his arm from were he was resting it with a jerk. “I met Magda before the  _Holocaust_ .” That one word was uttered with such a horrific snarl of rage and hate and pain, that Charles physical recoiled even further. “I loved her from the very moment I saw her.” A soft, fond smile graced his tight features. “We were just kids then. Then, then after...” After the camps, after Shaw, “We married. We had little Anya.” Sweet, little Anya. She was the bubbliest little child Erik ever had the pleasure of being near. “Moved to Vinnytsia; settled there. It was fine, for awhile.” His eyes seemed to darken. “I was found out.  _They_ discovered what I could do.  _They_ got scared.  _They_ burned my little daughter to death.” The plane began to shake and groan with every  _they_ Erik snarled. “And I tore the town apart.” 

Charles braced his arms against the armrests, and silently willed for Erik to  _calm his mind_ , and when the plane settled with a soft groan, Charles was almost convinced that he had use of his powers again. He looked up at Erik, and watched the man worry his bottom lip with his pearly-white teeth. His dull eyes were trained on the floor; face blank as he continuously, and mentally relived the death of his darling little girl, and...and what of his wife?

“Magda?” Charles asked cautiously.

Erik titled his head to the side, but did nothing more aside from resignedly mutter in an eerily detached voice, “She fled. She was frightened.”  _Of me_ .

Charles didn't need his powers to know that was what Erik had thought. He felt the man's pain and anguish as acutely as he had always felt anyone else's' when he had use of his telepathic and empathetic abilities. He wanted to apologize for Erik's pain; for what humans had, yet again, done to this man. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Erik didn't do well with pity anyway.

They sat in awkward silence for a long while after that. It was punctuated periodically with soft snuffles from Logan, and miscellaneous beeps and chirps from the cockpit. After awhile, the tension in Erik's muscles loosened somewhat, and Logan accidentally snored himself awake.

That was when Erik, eyes still focused on the carpeted flooring of the plane, finally asked, “How did you lose them?”

 

 

 


	5. The News

It had been several, long days since Charles had reluctantly let Raven and Erik walk away that afternoon in Washington. Hank still grumbled about his choice whenever his acute hearing caught a stray bit of news from the TV set. They were still playing the damn tapes from Washington; a mindless loop of shock and awe and horror and fear from various news stations all over the world. Which was a shock in itself. They did, after all, only have the three channels. Plus PBS.

Charles, however, opted to ignore Hank's griping by trying to channel the young mutant's aggravation towards his new plan instead: a major Cerebro upgrade. He tried to start if off easy, well aware that Hank was still reeling from the large dose of serum he had injected in himself, and was just as tired and worn as Charles himself was.

But after several days of noncommittal grunts to Charles' minor suggestions, the professor finally wheeled himself to Hank's lab and threw his upgrade suggestion at the geniuses hand-feet.

“What upgrade?” Hank huffed, as he leaned his lanky form over a mechanical arm on his work table, and fiddled with an exposed wire. He distractedly motioned towards the general direction of Cerebro as he mumbled, “She's as good as she's going to get, right now, Professor. I don't have the right supplies or-”

“DNA,” Charles started simply.

Hank looked up from his work, and pushed his spectacles up his nose; his expression completely bewildered. “I don't follow.”

“For all his faults and, well y'know, general craziness,” Charles pointed at his head, and twirled a finger. “I believe Trask was onto something when it came to DNA.” Hank's puzzlement didn't abate, but he set aside the pair of tweezers he was clutching. Charles wheeled himself over to one of the doctor's computers, and motioned for the other to join his side. “I want you to integrate a DNA tracking system within Cerebro. So, not only will I be able to find mutants by their thoughts and powers, but by their DNA as well. And think of the humans too. Maybe some will be willing to help us with our cause.”

Hank frowned. “But strands of DNA are specific and unique to every individual. Mutant or otherwise. How would that help anything unless you're looking for someone in particular?”

Charles leaned forward, and began tapping with his two index fingers. After a few seconds, a well-known profile came up. “Ookay,” he drew out slowly. “Maybe I should have thought of a more compelling argument against a genius,” he griped goodnaturedly. “Perhaps I _am_ looking for someone in particular.” He continued typing, and another profile came up. “Ah, here you go.” He scrolled down both, until he came upon a 2-D structure of each person's DNA. Side by side, the resemblance was unmistakable: the two were related.

“Who's profile are we looking at, Professor?” Hank was now leaning over Charles' shoulder.

“Peter's.”

“And?”

“Erik's.”

“They're related?”

“They're father and son.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed.”

Hank pulled away from the screen, turned his back, leaned his narrow hip against the edge of the table, and folded his arms across across his chest. “Okay. That's interesting to know,” he started, and then he swallowed the little lump in his throat. “Very, very interesting. Magneto has a son.” He let that thought sink in a moment longer, before he took a breath, and resumed his train of thought. “Professor...If you already know that Erik and Peter are related, and you're aware of where Peter lives....then who are you trying to find?”

Charles cleared his throat, and idly scratched his left bicep. “I had thought, rather _hoped_ , that I could help find Peter's biological mother.” He looked up at the softening expression of his former student. “If she is indeed still alive. Perhaps it would give the boy some sort of closure.”

Hank studied the professor for a moment, marveled at the man's ability to be absolutely unselfish, before he offered a shy smile, and curt nod. “I'll get working on that right away, Professor.” He placed a hand on Charles' shoulder. “I think it's a great idea.”

Charles smiled widely, and patted the other's hand awkwardly. “Thank you, Hank.” The other man just nodded again, and then set to work on his new objective. Charles sighed, and started to wheel himself away from the lab. He had an assignment of his own to complete: inform Erik Lehnsherr that he was apparently a proud papa.

He made it to Cerebro without a problem. He sent a quick, mental note to Hank that he was going to take a dip into the machine, and to _please_ not yank any important looking cables out while he worked. Hank managed an affirmative grunt that didn't really do much to ease Charles' weariness, but he still implicitly trusted the younger mutant with his life, so he placed the familiar helmet onto his shaggy hair and started up Hank's beloved creation.

The rush was as chaotic and exhilarating as ever, and Charles marveled at the entirety of it all. The machine, the thoughts, the voices...everything was magnificent. After basking in the soft, controlled murmurs of the world, Charles focused on the one sharp and silver mind that he knew most of all. It didn't take long to focus and hone in on it. Charles was pleased to belatedly remember that Erik never took that infernal helmet with him.

He watched from afar, at first, admiring the mind. It was so intelligent; yet so full of pain and torment and anguish. It was mostly filled with confusion and the distinct lack of purpose at the very moment. Charles took a steadying breath, and delved deeper. He tried his best to ignore the stray thoughts that Erik couldn't control, and gently prodded the active mind and alerted it to his presence.

The mind initially rebuked the intrusion in its surprise, but then... _Charles?_

_Hello, Erik._

_What are you doing?_ He didn't sound angry. Simply exhausted. _I'm sure I recall you telling me that you were never getting into my head again. Particularly after a rather crude sucker-punch._

Charles mentally rolled his eyes. _You deserved it. But I'm not here to rehash the past. I found some rather startling news that concerns you, and I only thought it prudent for you to know._

There was a mental equivalent of a pause, and then _Ah. And what, pray tell, is this alarming news?_

_You're a father, Erik._

If one could hear a throat close up, then swallow roughly in someone's mind, then Charles heard every bit of it as his former friend went through the motion. He could feel the heart in the other man's lean torso beat harder, and his stomach clench with a mixture of fear and shock.

_The boy. The boy at the Pentagon. Peter?_

_Yes._

There was a longer, strenuous pause. Then, _Thank you._

The mental link was then closed by Erik. Charles wasn't shocked at the suddenness of it. Erik had simply closed that part of his mind to Charles' intrusion, and had not, in fact, found another ridiculous helmet to jam over his head. If he had so wished, Charles could have easily slipped back into the other man's mind, but there was no reason for it. So, he let it go.

 


	6. The Recruitment

 The sound of the television set still blasting the news of the Washington showdown was nothing but white noise to Peter. He had long given up on watching the insanity, as much as he enjoyed the chaos, and retreated to the basement to scrounge up the old photo of who he now knew was of the metal bender. Or at least the metal bender's forearm.

The teen threw himself down on the couch with a mild grunt, and threw his legs over the arm of it. He crossed his ankles, and fluidly wiggled his legs back and forth as he threw his right arm behind his head for support, and clutched the edge of the picture with his left.

His lips, normally plump and pulled back into a smile, were thinned in concentration. He now knew that the inked arm belong to Erik Lehnsherr. Formally known as Magnus. Did that mean that Magda was his wife, and Anya his daughter? Did that mean that, if this was truly his biological family, that Erik was his father?

Peter scowled and gripped the edge of the picture in between his fingers, before tossing it as he would a playing card. Before it could touch the carpeted ground, however, the teen zipped forward, snatched it up, and then resumed his original position on the couch. The pink flesh of his lips decreased in their plumpness impossibly further.

Were the people in this damned photograph his real parents? Was this stupid picture something he just stole on a whim during his time in the orphanage? Was it just sheer coincidence that the man he had come to know as Magneto was the man known as Magnus in the grainy image of a once happy family?

Peter huffed, but still managed to delicately place the picture back on the table. He didn't want to turn it into dust...yet. He glared at it once more, before speeding up the stairs, and rummaging through the cabinets and drawers in search for something to eat. He eventually nabbed a bowl, a generic brand of cereal, and milk, and was nearly finished eating the entire bowl when a scuffling of shoes outside made him freeze. He pricked his ears, and listened carefully.

He could have easily used his abilities to see who it was and be back with his food without the person even knowing, but sometimes even he had to begrudgingly admit it was too taxing on his young body to use his power 24/7. So, he placed the almost empty bowl on the counter top and edged towards the front door. He could just barely make out a dark shadow of a man pacing back and forth in front of the door. Curious, he moved even closer.

Finally, the man stopped pacing and raised a hand in order to knock on the door. With his body not in constant motion, Peter could easily make out who the other man was: Erik Lehnsherr. With his heart thumping steadily against his ribcage, and his mouth suddenly a little too dry, Peter crossed the threshold of the small foyer and threw open the front door.

Erik, more than a little startled, took a step back. He tore his sunglasses off, revealing red-rimmed eyes that were further pronounced by the tell-tale dark smudges of lack of sleep. There was a swatch of stark white bandages on his neck. At least he wasn't wearing that ridiculous helmet and cape combo that he was parading around in on national television.

“You look like shit-”

“We need to talk-”

They both snapped their mouths shut, and simultaneously raised a brow at the other.

Peter held open the door a little further, and then zipped away into the kitchen. He figured Erik would figure it out. It took a few seconds of Erik waiting in the doorway with more than a little hesitancy, before he finally entered the home, and closed the front door behind him. He started forward, down a narrow hallway, towards the sound of a television set. But a sharp whistle to his left drew him up short. He peered into the room, and saw the teen sitting across from a pulled out and vacant chair, munching on a full bowl of cereal.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Peter said around a mouthful full of food.

“Cute,” Erik intoned blandly as he stepped inside. He glanced at the boy, at the empty seat, and back again. With a barely stifled eye roll, he settled himself in the offered seat, and crossed his legs at the knees. “I trust you know why I'm here?”

Peter nodded vigorously. “You're my old man, aren't you?”

Erik blinked.

“I don't...” Erik trailed off, and fixed his tired gaze on a nondescript pile of magazines just over the teen's left shoulder. “I don't...” He squared his jaw at his apparent inability to communicate.

“You don't what?” Peter's eyes, normally keen on focusing directly upon the others', couldn't seem to keep from darting around the room. He haphazardly placed the bowl of food on the edge of the kitchen table. “You don't want to be my father?” His lips quirked into a wry grin. He still couldn't meet Erik's scrutinizing stare.

Erik inhaled deeply, and then released it slowly. “I don't know _how_ to be a father,” he admitted gruffly. When Peter, in his surprise at the admission, looked up sharply, the older man was studying his clasped hands resting within his lap. There was a grim set to his clean-shaven jaw. He looked up, almost with a finality in his economic choice of movement. And choice of words. He set his piercing eyes (a ridiculous mixture of green, gray, and blue) onto the younger man's hopeful face. “I don't have _time_ to be a father, Pietro.”

There was a flash of hurt across Peter's face, before a spark of anger lit up his dark brown orbs. “It's Peter,” he snapped before hauling himself up from the dining chair. “But you have time for-” He cut himself off, and glared down at his father. “What is it that you're trying to do anyway?”

Erik, fighting off the affronted feeling that reared its head at the boy's tone, ground his teeth and pursed his lips. “It's no matter.” _To you_ , was left unsaid.

Peter snorted, and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. It's pretty important, apparently. I mean,” he started pacing back and forth in the tight space that was his kitchen, “You don't have time to be a father, but you have time to do your dastardly deeds.” His sarcasm was thick, and tinged with resentment towards his father's unimpressed expression. “You have time to kick it with the long-haired hippie. To, to...” He waved a hand in the air. “To complete your plans for world domination, and all that crap.”

Erik remained silent, even appearing totally removed from the boy's rant, but the soft humming of metal being barely restrained from flying across the room indicated that Peter's words were not falling upon deaf ears. “Are you quite finished?” His voice was brusque, and more accented in his Germanic timbre than usual. He cocked his head slightly to the side, studying his son's trembling form in a detached manner that he usually reserved for lesser people. Only the sheen of moisture over his bright eyes belied his projected emotion.

The kid looked ready to burst into speed, and flee the room in an attempt to outrun his current problems. Instead of running, however, Peter made a disgusted sound and nearly threw himself back into his vacated seat. He crossed his arms over his chest, jutted his lower lip out in a manner that could only be described as a pout, and began jouncing his leg up and down.

“So?”

Erik blinked once.

“So?”

“What's your plan, old man?” Peter switched from his right leg to his left. The up and down motion minutely rocking his wooden seat.

“I believe I've already stated-”

Peter waved a hand in the air, effectively cutting off Erik's worldly tone of voice. “Yeah, yeah, none of my business. But why can't I join you, or something?”

The perfunctory brow raise again.

“I don't have time for this, Peter.” The boy's name slipped off his tongue in an exasperated manner. “I've told you that I do not have time to be a father.” Maybe it was just Peter's hopefulness, but it sounded as if Erik was wearing down in his argument.

“I know,” he replied quickly, a grin curling the edges of his lips. “But I'm old enough to not need a babysitter.” He shrugged. “I'm old enough to not need a dad.”

Erik hid his internal wince at the callous statement, but had to concede to the teen's point. The paternal side of him wanted the child far away from him, despite the paradoxical point that reared. But he also had use for a speedster in his new, and fledgling Brotherhood. The strategist in him wanted the boy on his side; the father in him wanted the boy a safe distance away. The self-contradictory nature of his wants pushed a soft throb of a headache into a blossoming, painful and all-encompassing pound.

This time the older man couldn't hide his wince. He cradled his left elbow in his right hand, as he pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his head.

“What's wrong, dad?” Peter's slip didn't go unnoticed to the intelligent man. “Did I say something wrong? I just thought I could help. We don't have to toss a ball around or, like, go fishing.” He was leaning forward now; the silver fringe of his hair cresting the top of his equally gray eyebrows. “I can help. Seriously. I mean, who got you outta the Pentagon? Huh? Huh?” Erik didn't need to look up to know the teen was smirking proudly. “I can be _so_ useful.”

“I beg you,” Erik pleaded, “Stop talking. Please.” He looked up and met Peter's eager eyes. He sighed heavily. “If, and I mean _if_ I-” he didn't get to finish his thought as the boy whooped and sped the short distance from his chair to his father's. He had the older man in an awkward, one-armed hug.

Erik froze, his blue eyes wide, and his arms akimbo. The boy's arm didn't leave, though, and Erik couldn't stop his body from relaxing into the touch and even returning it with an awkward pat to Peter's back. He cleared his throat once, gruffly, when Peter finally let go.

“Right.”

“Cool.”


	7. The Epilogue

Several weeks later, Hank earnestly watched as Charles placed the helmet back on his now close-cropped hair. He aided the professor in starting up Cerebro, and then stood back and watched as his creation came to life. He couldn't stop his proud grin.

“Brilliant work, Hank,” Charles praised him with a beam. He focused on what he knew best: the minds of others. After skating the surface of thousands of different thoughts, still caught up in the sheer amount of mutants that still remained out there, he then tried his hand at Hank's latest addition to the machine. He focused on the uploaded strand of DNA. The first was Peter's. He wanted to find the boy's mother, and let him know whether or not she was indeed alive.

Unsurprisingly, Peter's mind popped up immediately. Erik's mind was there as well. There were two others floating about, much fainter in relation to Peter's DNA, but Charles kept note of their location and was mindful about their, well, minds. It didn't appear that Peter's mother was still out there, and Charles was slightly disheartened by the fact. At least the other two pinpoints were possible relations. Cousins, maybe? Aunts or uncles the boy had never met?

Charles was very happy about how well Cerebro appeared to working with the new adjustment, so he fiddled with the machine and uploaded the second strand of DNA: Erik's.

There were four bright spots that stood out strongly against the pale gray backdrop. Charles touched upon the one that he had searched for. That was Erik. Then the next one, that matched his initial search. Peter. Who were the other two?

Charles brow knit in confusion. They were the same two from Peter's search; much bolder in their brightness in this exploration than they had been in the first. Curious, Charles touched upon them, and physically drew back in surprise.

“Um, Hank?”

“Yeah?” Hank sounded just as confused as the professor did.

“Do you see what I see?”

“I do, Professor.”

“I don't mean to-”

“No, I understand. It's a new program. Maybe it needs some tweaking...” Hank trailed off.

“Actually, Hank,” Charles sounded resigned to the fact. “I believe that what I'm looking at is extremely accurate.”

“So, there's not one...”

“Or two...”

“But three?”

“So it seems, Hank. So it seems.”

“Oh boy.”

 


	8. The Sequel's Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prologue to the Sins of the Father sequel. Otherwise known as "the story in which Erik Lehnsherr discovers that he has two other children."

It had been weeks since Erik Lehnsherr had involuntarily recruited his son to join his mutant cause. It had also been weeks full of inane chatter, persistent headaches, and constant eye rolling. Erik's mental state was, without a doubt, fragile after enduring his son, and all of said son's antics, for several days. The metal bender was convinced he was beginning to develop a permanent tic in his jaw from all the physically demanding attempts to keep his mouth shut. The same could be said for the twitch to his eye as he fought to keep his hands away from the teen's pale throat.

Erik's tight grip on the black steering wheel slowly lost its tension as the rambling teenager began rubbing at his eyes with his knuckle. He stifled a wide yawn with his free hand. Peter stretched his arms out, and accompanied the movement with another wide, and obnoxious yawn. He shifted in his seat for several minutes before finally lifting himself up, and shoving his lean body into the back of the car. His sneaker-clad foot clipped the tip of Erik's ear as he twisted and adjusted himself.

Despite his aggravation, Erik took a deep breath and focused his tired eyes on the black asphalt road before him. It wasn't long before the teen's heavy breathing evened out, and he succumbed to his evident exhaustion. Erik glanced in the review mirror, and couldn't help a fond smile from upturning the edges of his lips. The sight of his sprawled out son sleeping soundly in the back of their stolen vehicle wasn't a common one. He turned back to the dark road ahead, and stifled his own yawn.

The rhythmic rumble of the nondescript black Chrysler, coupled with the soft snores from Peter, and the caressing coolness of air from his cracked window threatened to lull the bone-weary man into a deep sleep. The smooth, black pavement gave way to desert sand when Erik finally forced himself to admit his fatigue, and pulled the car off the road. He coasted the vehicle around a small, rust-riddled shanty made from slabs of thin steel. It was the only building in sight for miles, and Erik didn't believe he'd have to fight anyone for the right to crash there for a night.

He put the car in park, before he turned the ignition off. Without the purr of the engine, the car ceased its mild vibration, and brought with it a sudden stillness and silence. Said silence was punctuated only by the mild snores from Peter, and the steady breathing from Erik himself. Erik closed his aching eyes, and rested his forehead against the warmth of the steering wheel he had only just let go of after hours upon hours of relentlessly tedious driving.

When he felt himself drifting off in his hunched over and uncomfortable position, Erik forcibly pulled his head up before rubbing at his eyes with the palms of both his hands. He suppressed a deep groan at the minimal relief the kneading wrought out. He turned his head to peek at the back seat, and was barely able to make out the dark lump that was his son with the aid of the moon. With his son sleeping relatively comfortably, and no immediate detectable threats, Erik allowed himself to push his seat back as far as his son's prone form allowed, and finally closed his eyes for much needed rest.

* * *

 “Wakey, wakey, old man.”

Erik slowly peeled back one lid, and then the other, before blinking rapidly to rid himself of the bleariness that clouded his vision. He craned his head to the right, and was met with a wide-eyed, grinning teenager with a loudly growling stomach. Despite the obviously hungry boy, Erik turned his head away, draped his forearm across his eyes, and tried to resume his sleep with a gruff, “Five more minutes.”

Peter frowned, and began prodding his father's side with his finger. “Hey, man, c'mon.” When the poking didn't rouse the man into action, Peter clambered back into the rear and placed his feet against the driver's side seat. He used his speed to vibrate the chair as fast and as hard as he could manage. The older man visibly started, before he pulled his arm away from his face.

“Knock it off,” he grumbled in his sleep-heavy voice.

“I'm starving,” the teenager petulantly whined.

Erik felt his body tense, and couldn't help the enraged tinge to his reply. “You don't _know_ what _starving_ is, boy.” Despite this, he did pull himself upright, and pulled the driver's seat back into his original position with jerky and sharp movements.

Peter, aware that he had once again angered his father, adopted a mild pout before hefting himself into the front, passenger side seat. He squinted as the blinding sun pierced their unprotected windshield, and bore it's white, hot heat upon them. He lifted a hand to cover his brown eyes, and then risked a glance over to Erik.

The older man was unbuttoning the white polo that he wore; trying to pull the fabric away from his sweat-slicked skin with a grimace. The heat was becoming unbearable; especially trapped inside what was essentially a furnace, and without any noticeable breeze to move the stagnant air. He opened the car door, and pulled his long body out from the confining space. Peter watched as his father stretched, before he turned round and poked his head back into the car.

“I'm going to relieve myself,” he stated. “Don't do anything stupid.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but the sight of pale blue eyes zeroing on his neck gave him pause. The man looked like he was contemplating murder. His murder. So, instead of an ornery remark, Peter gave him an eye roll with accompanied mock salute.

When Erik returned, the teenager had placed his feet on the dashboard, and was dangling his arm out of the now rolled down window. Despite wanting to shove the kid's sneakers off the dash, Erik just ignored the slight rebuke of authority, and simply buckled his seatbelt instead. He rolled down his own window all the way, turned the ignition, and rolled the car forward.

They weren't on the road for long when the teen pulled his arm back in, and began drumming a random cadence against his thighs with the palms of his hands. He grinned up into the glaring sun, and closed his against the gentle caress of wind that tousled his silver locks.

“So,” he began, “We grab some grub, and then what?” When no response was instantly forthcoming, Peter risked a peek at his father's impassive expression. His left arm rested on the door; his elbow nearly out of the vehicle's window as he propped his head against his closed hand. Their steady speed down the desert highway kicked up a dry mixture of air and dust that coated the crinkles around the older man's eyes. “Erik? What's the game plan, here?”

“The game plan, Peter, is to leave the planning up to me.” The scathing remark was lessened by the man's lack of expression. However, a slight bend in the normally straightforward road angled the sun directly into his eyes. He grimaced at the sudden sharpness, and pulled his head away from where he had been resting it. “Sunglasses, kid.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Would it kill you to say _please_?” He pulled his legs off the dash, and began to rummage in the glove box. He pulled out the now familiar Dita Legends Carbine. His father had a taste for fashionable glasses.

“Yes. It would.” Erik plucked the offered object from his son's hands, and slipped the frames onto his face. He resumed his head-propped position.

The teen scowled, and slouched further in his seat. He and his father had been traveling for weeks, and the most information that the teenager had managed to gather was that the two of them were going to recruit mutants for their cause. He didn't know how they were going to find them, convince them to drop whatever life they had been living, and then join their “rebellion against the humans” cause. But apparently he didn't need to be included in on the plan.

Peter's scowl deepened. He crossed his arms over his chest, and turned his head away from Erik. He didn't care if the man saw him annoyed or frustrated, but hurt or upset wasn't something he was quite willing to share just yet. The teen huffed soundly.

Erik, having noted his son's wounded demeanor, ground his teeth as he mentally argued with himself. He didn't mean to exclude the boy from everything, but he wasn't used to being open or inclusive with his plans or emotions. Ten years ago, maybe. But that was another time; another life.

“Look, Peter,” Erik started with a heavy exhale, “I'm barely sure what I'm doing. I don't like working off the cuff, and _admitting_ that I don't.” He pulled his head away from his hand, and let his arm graze the exterior of the sun-warmed car. “I'll try to include you more, okay?”

The teen perked when Erik started talking, but had refused to meet what he assumed was a steady gaze behind those purple-tinted glasses. When Erik grudgingly admitted his failings, he looked over and fought off a grin. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a writer, I have taken the liberty to choose and use various facts and tidbits from both the X-Men Comics and X-Men films. I will attempt to have everything make sense in the realm of my story, but there will be things that are not accurate in one world as they would be in another. This note is to appease any readers that find something is not “canonically correct,” and choose to point it out. I'm aware. Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Some facts are loosely based on X-Men Wikipedia pages. Others are from the movieverse itself. I hope I didn't screw up anything too badly.


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